


saturday's for the boys

by attheborder



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Banter, Dissociating! In The Wardroom, Gen, George Hodgson's Poor Social Skills, Heterosexuality, Humor, Period-Typical Sexism, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:55:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27660331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/pseuds/attheborder
Summary: George tries to make conversation.fill for my Terror Bingo square: "Mistakes"
Relationships: Lt George Hodgson & Lt John Irving & Lt Edward Little
Comments: 28
Kudos: 39
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2020)





	saturday's for the boys

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vegetas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vegetas/gifts).



“To our wives and sweethearts,” Captain Crozier said, in a perfunctory tone, and raised his glass.

“May they never meet!” responded the wardroom. George’s voice rang out far louder than the others.

It was their first Saturday at sea, and the first real wardroom supper they’d had, after nearly every evening that week had seen horribly rough seas on the way up the coast, necessitating all hands on deck and the associated hurried meal-taking below before rushing back up again.

But that morning had seen them enter the calm passages of the Orkneys, and _Terror_ had sailed smoothy into Stromness harbor under a press of sail and was now lying safely at anchor alongside _Erebus,_ with _Rattler, Blazer_ and _Barretto Junior_ close at hand. Helpman the clerk was currently aboard the latter to sort out the issue of the regrettably deceased bullocks, but the rest of the officers were present: the first lieutenant, Mr. Little, was seated to George’s left, and the third lieutenant Irving was across from George, next to the surgeon. At the head of the table, Captain Crozier downed his drink in one deep, practiced draught.

As he took his first bite of mutton, George watched Mr. Jopson, the Captain’s steward, receive word from Mr. Gibson at the door, and go to whisper in Dr. McDonald’s ear.

“If you’ll pardon me,” said McDonald apologetically, rising from his seat. “It’s Mr. Brown again—I’ll get him settled, and be back quick as ever I can.”

“You’re excused, Doctor,” said the Captain. He rubbed at his temple as the doctor took his leave; Jopson refilled his glass. “We’ll be sending Brown home along with the sick Marine, I expect, if his constitution does not recover.” Lieutenant Little nodded solemnly.

“Mr. Irving,” said George, looking to brighten the mood, “you were aboard the _Excellent_ of late _,_ were you not? I’m not sure if I told you—I myself trained in gunnery at that fine establishment.”

“You did mention it,” said Irving. “Once or twice.”

“A pity we did not cross paths, eh?” said George with a grin. “I could have shown you the ropes!” Irving gave a polite smile in return. Encouraged, George went on, “Did you know our own Commander Fitzjames was in the very first class of officers to receive training there? He was the pride of the _Ganges,_ thanks to Captain Hastings.”

“I had heard, yes.”

“I found Portsmouth to be wonderfully exciting, didn’t you? All that bustle and activity on the docks—the construction, the important visitors—never a dull moment.”

Irving sniffed. “It was a foul place, sir,” he said, “compared to the Irish station.”

At the mention of Ireland Crozier nodded knowingly, a misty look coming into his eyes.

George went on, “I wonder if you knew a lady by the name of—well, we all called her Little Mary. It was our joke, my messmates and I—for you see, she was anything but little.” He made the appropriate motion before his chest and delivered a rakish wink across the table.

“I’m sure I never knew anyone by that name,” muttered Irving, his eyes roving to his plate and staying there.

“Oh, well, you must have known her to see her, at least—a fine woman—terribly fine—we all fought over who would keep company with her first on an evening, for no-one ever wanted to be last, as by then she would have deflated a fair bit, and be apt to pick up her pipe and smoke it while you were going at her! And she’d never share!”

This tale, which had been volleyed back and forth over many a raucous table in the London navy pubs George had frequented in his leisurely months prior to proceeding aboard _Terror,_ received a stunningly cold reception from his fellow officers. Captain Crozier was the only one not looking down at his food in silence; his gaze was instead caught on something invisible on the paneling of the far wall.

George, recovering, took a swig of port and leaned back in his chair. “But ah, those days are behind me now,” he said, “far behind, for in London I leave my betrothed. I proposed to her not a week before we sailed—not planned, mind, but when I thought of her warm in another man’s arms while I shivered in the Polar Sea, my choice was clear. Is not ‘yes’ the most beautiful word that can issue from a lady’s lips?”

Crozier abruptly pushed back his chair and stood. “Do without me for a moment, gentlemen,” he said, and swiftly departed. Jopson followed him out without a word; Gibson smoothly slipped in to replace him. Only Irving and Little remained now at the table to keep George company.

“... Not fond of the cabbage, perhaps?” George said, looking over his shoulder at the door.

“Perhaps he wishes to see to Mr. Brown,” said Irving, despite being able to see clearly that the Captain had disappeared not in the direction of the sick bay but inside the Great Cabin.

“Hm. Mr. Little,” said George now, looking to the first lieutenant, who’d not spoken a word since before the evening’s toast, “how long ago was your last commission, before _Terror?_ ”

Little coughed into his napkin, cleared his throat and then said, almost too quietly to hear, “Eighteen months, since the _Vindictive_ was paid off.”

“Good lord, sir!” exclaimed George. “And I thought my half a year was an eternity! I would’ve given up an arm to spend an extra twelvemonth with my Charlotte—well, perhaps not an arm— _something_ of import, at any rate—whatever the case I should keep my fingers, for they are her third-favorite parts of me, after my mouth, and of course my—”

“That is a long time ashore, Mr. Little,” Irving said, interrupting George quite rudely. “Did you take up a trade?”

“The trade of courting, no doubt,” laughed George before Little could answer, as the thought came into his head: “A chap as handsome as you must have been pursued over hill and over dale! Tell me, Edward”—he had the sense that using the man’s Christian name might speed the pace of their burgeoning friendship along— “which one was the most beautiful? You must describe their virtues in detail.”

Little went pale and muttered something George could not catch.

“What was that, Lieutenant?”

“There were none,” he said, a little louder.

“I do not believe you! Not for a moment!” crowed George. “Why, you are a poor liar, I can see it plain as day on your face. There _was_ someone, was there not?”

Little busied his mouth with his vegetables and made a noncommittal noise.

“Do you find,” said George, leaning forward confidentially, “that a lady’s pleasure is enhanced by the growth of side-whiskers? Yours are healthy indeed—Charlotte only wishes my own grew in as fine and thick, for she very much likes the feeling on her thighs.”

“Perhaps you ought to choose another matter for your discourse, Lieutenant,” said Irving. His face had gone quite red; the precise inverse of Little’s oddly pale countenance. “This is not a Christian subject.”

“You astonish me, Mr. Irving,” said George. “Surely you are not offended—this cannot be your first wardroom—aboard the _Excellent_ such talk was commonplace, unless after I left that pinched pastor managed to institute the reforms he was always threatening?”

“He did not,” said Irving, “but Mr. Gower was a fine chaplain, my only friend aboard—”

“Edward,” George said, turning to his left, “tell Mr. Irving here he has nothing to fear. We’re all gentlemen. There are no ladies listening in, unless they are hiding away in the steward’s pantry—Mr. Gibson, have you snuck any ladies aboard, you sly dog?”

“Sir,” squeaked Gibson, standing behind Irving, his eyes gone wide and fearful, giving him the distinct aspect of a hare staring down the barrel.

“Oh, I am only joking—though such a thing did happen aboard the _Rattlesnake_ , as I heard it from a Lieutenant Marwood on the _Excellent._ She would spend every night in a different berth, and on Sundays you could find her being aired out in the rigging!”

It was at that moment that Dr. McDonald re-entered, dusting off his hands. “What did I miss? Nothing too exciting, I hope?” He looked about at the lieutenants: one cherry-red, one ghost-white, and one chuckling to himself.

Little coughed. Irving asked, “How—how fares Mr. Brown, Doctor?”

McDonald sighed as he sat. “His disease appears to be venereal—caught from one of the Deptford doxies, I’d imagine. Call me a radical, but I sometimes think the Admiralty ought to hire women of their own for the purpose—keep them clean and clear, and mandate visits from all unmarried men and officers, to avoid this wretched issue.”

Lieutenant Little choked on his mouthful of carrots; Lieutenant Irving’s hand spasmed against his empty glass, sending it toppling to the table; and Mr. Gibson sneezed, loudly.

“Well,” said Dr. McDonald.

Supper passed in silence. Poking morosely at his meal, George considered that at this very moment Lieutenants Gore and Le Vesconte were enjoying a round of bawdy jokes under the tolerant, paternal gaze of Sir John, and felt a pang of deep envy. He had hoped, in learning of Commander Fitzjames’s personal involvement in his appointment, that he would be matched with officers of similar temperaments. Could it be that Fitzjames did not know him as well as he thought?

He had full confidence that his fellow lieutenants would warm to him—and to each other—before long, but it was apparent that speaking of women in this wardroom was not a mistake he would dare make again. A damn shame; it was one of his favorite topics, and certainly the one he had the most practice in. He would have to speak instead of China, and his adventures in the Pacific. Polish up some of his tales of Eton, and Carlisle, and perhaps even the one passed down from his father about Beilby Porteus’s salt cellar. He would declaim in the Fitzjamesian mode, for was it not true that the Commander could go on for hours, entertaining an enraptured crowd with not a word spoken of girls or romance?

Once this fact occurred to him he felt his mood settle. He busied himself thinking of the letter he would write Charlotte to send back with the transport; the carefully-chosen adjectives with which he would describe her most precious of places. _Roseate,_ perhaps, or even _ambrosial..._

By the time the Captain reentered, and took up his seat again, George was feeling back to his usual spirits.

“Captain Crozier,” he said, breaking the silence, “tell us about Sir James Ross, will you? I hear he is a capital fellow—”

***

**Author's Note:**

> the "h" in "george h. hodgson" stands for heterosexual. it is known. bless his heart
> 
> bonus hodge facts: [his father](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Hodgson_\(priest\)) was the dean of carlisle and also a cousin of [a famous bishop of london](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beilby_Porteus). his [sister henrietta](Henrietta_Mildred_Hodgson) is the great-great-grandmother of queen elizabeth. yes you read that right.
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](http://areyougonnabe.tumblr.com) and [twitter!](http:twitter.com/areyougonnabe)


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